


Guitarra de Calaveras

by Ishouldbestudying7



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Here we go, One Shot, a very specific one to be exact, enjoy some feels about a sad little guitar, inanimate objects can have feelings cant they, one with a little gold tooth and skull headboard, pixar sure says so, well in that case
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-02-28 22:44:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13281429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishouldbestudying7/pseuds/Ishouldbestudying7
Summary: The guitar has clearly been through some better days





	1. Regalo

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Enjoy this little piece about the skull guitar we all know so well.

All objects had a story to tell, if you look closely enough. 

The guitar was no exception. 

The afternoon sun streamed through the streets of Santa Cecilia, the last preparations for the night's festivities glowing amber in the crisp air. The glass case on the side of the zapateria shone, the letters adorning the wall glittering in their frames. The light winked along the white wood of the guitar, caressing the skull adorning the headboard. The rosy glow of the dying rays of the sun gave an ethereal and unblemished effect to the old instrument. 

Only the sun was around to see the dents and scratches in the wooden planks, the fraying of the strings, the slight fading on the skull head. 

Oh, the stories this guitar could tell. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been a warm day, made even better by the pure adoration in the air. Strong yet delicate hands had placed the guitar with the greatest care into a pair of long and sturdy one, and the exclamations of delight that followed the transfer ringing through the air.

"Imelda, amor, lo amo tanto! How did you....isn't it-"

"Shush, Corazon. Te lo mereces. You deserve it. After all, a musician needs a proper guitar."

A calloused hand ran lovingly over the headboard-over the tuning pegs, the strings and the outline of a skull, complete with a gold tooth. The tenderness of his touch could melt even the hardest of hearts, and his hands plucked the strings with a quiet grace and expertise. 

A melody formed, soft and soaring, full of love and appreciation. A song-a message-found its way into the air, and wound through the doors, into the bedroom of a little girl, a baby no more than a few months old. Despite this, she gurgled and laughed, reaching out with her chubby hands, as though to hold tight to the notes floating through the air. 

But music can't be contained. 

However, the music was rudely interrupted by a clang, as the man holding it had been so eager to stand an embrace his wife that the guitar had fallen from his grip, and crashed to the floor, gaining it's first scratch-a long hairline mark from the corner of the table the man had been perched on-in the process. 

"Oh, amor..."

The woman had given her best glare, but her anger was ruined by her husband, who had simply dipped her low and kissed her. 

The guitar was left forgotten on the ground.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------

Sunset streamed through the small room, over the figures of a small girl and a man perched on a dresser, tuning a familiar skull guitar and giving it a timid strum. Satisfied, he stood, fingers expertly finding the chords he was looking for. The girl on the bed shifted expectantly, her braids sliding off of her shoulders and onto her back. The man moved forward, the light catching his guitar as he moved. For a moment, the rays highlighted the three long scratches on the back corner of the guitar, a result of a tangle with a disgruntled alley cat. A melody arose, one familiar and comforting to both in the room. 

"Remember me....."

The sun sank contentedly, listening to the song of love, shared between Father and Daughter. 

"For even if I'm far away I hold you in my heart..."

The girl giggled, watching both her father's face and his hands as they flew across the strings with immense interest. She smiled up at him, looking deep into the big brown eyes that stared back at her with more love than anyone would have thought. 

"Papa!"

The man smiled, and continued to sidestep towards his daughter, her laughter much sweeter to his ears than the song he was playing. 

"Know that I am here with you the one way I can be...."

He was kneeling in front of her now, the guitar resting on his knee. The girl reached out to hold her father's face in her hands, her voice joining in with her father's. He looked at his daughter, reveling in the way her eyes looked over his features. He stopped strumming, the guitar merely forgotten between her bed and his chest. 

None of that mattered now. 

"Until you're in my arms again..."

The man stood, guitar back in position.

"Remember me..."  
\-------------------------------------------------------------

"HOW COULD YOU!!!"

The man ducked, his hair ruffled by the force of the boot that had flown at his head. He stood again, and tried to make his way towards the woman, who's eyes were alight with a fury that would have rivaled the gods of old. HE reached out to her, pleading. 

"Please, mi Corazon.."

Her eyes blazed, an she grabbed a spoon from the counter. She hefted it like a sword, and the man shrank back, eyes flung protectively over his head. 

"DON"T CALL ME THAT! You can't call me that if you're leaving!"

The man stood once more-determined to walk into the eye of the storm-and dropped the small suitcase he had been holding. 

"Please, it's only for a few months, and even if it costs me my life, I will return to you!"

The woman would not listen, instead choosing to force him out of the doors. He stumbled back, away from his wife's fury, and landed on his backside, catching his suitcase and knocking the wind out of himself. He heard the clang of his guitar as it followed him out of the door, and he heard his wife whisper-her voice full of venom,

"Leave. And don't bother coming back." 

The door slammed, leaving the man in darkness. He stood, walking forward to grab his guitar. He looked it over, sighing at the new scratches and the open seam that had bloomed from her anger. He slung it over his back, but stopped halfway through bending to retrieve his suitcase, which had sprang open upon impact.

Staring at him from the depths of the contents was a picture of his wife and child, posing for a family photo. 

His wife looked as regal and proud as always, and his daughter was smiling and laughing. 

He ran a finger tenderly over the face of his daughter, and looked lovingly at his wife. 

"Even if it costs me my life."

And he was gone into the night.


	2. Actuacion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The show must go on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody! Sorry this took so long, but I have been spending quite a bit of time on my other fic, Ditto. Anyway, I'm sorry for the delay, but I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Another day, another venue. 

The young man held the guitar gently, the bright stage lights shining but doing nothing to falter his hands, which grazed the strings with the utmost care and precision. The melody that was being played accompanied the singing man perfectly, reasonable considering it was written to do so. The man playing would chime in periodically, but was easily overshadowed by the boisterous lead singer, who was moving around the stage with ease, often standing directly in front of the guitar. 

The shadows the lead cast temporarily covered the guitar, and therefore the dents and scratches present on it's surface. The chink in the paint from the time both men had been thrown out of a cantina in Cancun, a scratch from the time a drunk audience member threw a plate of tapas at them, the faded paint from where the player constantly held his prized possession. 

The singer finished with a flourish and a bow, not excluding a wink to the ladies who had gathered on the edge the stage. Although most of them returned his affection, some eyes were following the player, who was smiling good-graciously, although his mind was elsewhere. After giving one last ovation, he sat at the bar and ordered a drink with his friend, who toasted.

"To our success! Salud!"

Both men drank, while the player kept one hand on his guitar case, and therefore a hand on the people he left behind, the people he played for every night, those he could not see but still held in his heart. 

He drank once more, waiting for the time when he would see them again. 

\------------------------------------------------------------

The guitar case was propped in the corner, the soft candlelight flickering on the black-painted wood. The young guitarist was bent over a desk, pen moving rapidly as he scribbled out his words on a sheet of paper. His brows furrowed in concentration, knitted in concern, and raised in mirth. He could practically see this letter reach his family-the small hands of his daughter reaching up to take the letter from her seemingly indifferent mother (who would have been awaiting the letter even more eagerly than her daughter). Both would smile at the descriptions of the escapades that he was partaking in, never without his trusty guitar. The daughter and mother would take turns reading and re-reading while the other was not looking, often clutching the letter to their chests and hoping, wishing for his safe return. 

And he had promised that he would return. 

He concluded his letters the same way every time He would glance at his guitar, wondering. Wondering if he made the right decision, if it was too late to back up now. He would then think of what his singing partner would say, and decide that he could back out whenever he wanted, and opt to go home after the last venue. 

Then the next, then the next. 

He would turn back to he letter, and sign it the same way. 

"I will see you soon, mi amor. Give Coco all of my love. Todo el amor que tengo."

He would then blow out the candle, pat his guitar case on the way out, and find his way to the nearest post station. 

The guitar would be left alone, skull paint facing the leather on the inside of the case and waiting. 

For what, nobody knew. 

\------------------------------------------------------

"I'm going home, Ernesto. Hate me if you want. But my mind is made up."

The young man hefted the guitar case in his hand, counter-balancing the weight of the suitcase in his other hand. The time had finally come for the man to find his way home: his guitar would now play for those whom it was meant for. He moved towards the door, only to be jerked violently back by the other man grabbing the case. The guitar rattled inside, and the words were lost to the vibration of strings from the jumble. 

"I can't do this without your songs, Hector!"

The guitar case was wrenched back, and anyone would notice the tensions rising in the room. The men debated, and the guitarist began to move ut the door, away from this life, towards home. 

Until his attention was drawn by the proposal of a toast. 

Just like the old days. 

The man looked out, debating. Should he go and take what he wanted and not look back, as he had when he made this decision in the first place? 

No. He could spare a moment for his amigo. 

The sound of clinking glasses, a toast, and a fate sealed. 

When the man collapsed to the ground, the guitar case fell with him.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

The guitar laid against the director's chair, the headboard leaning against the thigh of the man sitting across from the reporter. The bright lights of the movie set around them and the flash of the cameras illuminated the newly finished wood of the guitar. It had been glazed and polished, erasing any trace of its previous image and owner. 

Totally clean. 

The interviewer leaned forward, clearly star struck by his current company yet trying to remain professional. 

"Senor de la Cruz, what did it take for you to seize your moment?"

The interviewee chuckled. 

"I had to have faith in my dream. No one was going to hand it to me. It was up to me to reach for that dream, grab it tight..."

He reached to clutch the guitar.

"And never let it go."

\-------------------------------------------------------------  
This was the life for him. 

The man stood on a grand stage, white skull guitar that had become a staple of his fame propped ceremoniously on his arm. He flashed a grin to the swooning ladies in the crowd and began to sing, his fingers grazing the strings in the same patterns it had for years. The colorful lights of the stage shone bright, shining against the polished-and recently repainted-white skull guitar. He moved and swayed around the stage, swooning with the dancers and ascending a set of moving stairs, towards his big finale. Standing under a giant bell prop, he belted his finale note, determined to end the show with a bang.

"Until you're in my arms again, Remember..."

A musical swell, then the finish everyone had been waiting for. 

"Me!"

An accident, a slip, and the giant bell came barreling downwards, right on top of the singer. The guitar managed to remain mostly intact, although the man who had been holding it had been declared dead on the spot. 

It was a finale no one would ever forget.

**Author's Note:**

> Do you have any idea how hard it is to write for an inanimate object? And in case you haven't guessed, this is supposed to be about the history of the Rivera family and the story of Coco, as told by the guitar. Well, kind of. More chapters to come, but I hope you enjoy. Please comment!


End file.
